


Too Human a Muse

by its_mike_kapufty



Series: AU Biscuits [3]
Category: Rhett & Link
Genre: Alternate Universe - Artists, Boss/Employee Relationship, Don't copy to another site, Draw Me Like One of Your French Girls, Edging, Exhibitionism, Fondling, Hand Jobs, Kissing, M/M, Masturbation, Nude Modeling, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Porn With Plot, lmaooo i love that that's a tag holy shit, model!Rhett and artist!Link
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-05-16 18:31:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19323715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/its_mike_kapufty/pseuds/its_mike_kapufty
Summary: For Rhett, there's something undeniably bizarre about posing nude under a wisteria tree while listening to dulcimer music. The artist who'd hired him would disagree.





	Too Human a Muse

It isn't like nude modeling is a thing Rhett had ever honestly been interested in. No one aspires to be one when they're growing up and imagining how their life will go. But to stand around naked, let someone depict you, and get paid a hefty sum for it? It sounds like a pretty good gig.

When he's surprisingly selected for the job after sending a portfolio of (questionable) selfies to a nondescript email account, all he gets is an address. He follows it to a high-gated house between apartment rises, double-checking the location on his phone before buzzing the intercom. The feed goes live, but no one responds.

"Uhh," Rhett mumbles, glancing up at the modern white building dripping with ivy, tucked in the middle of the hustle and bustle of downtown. "It's me—the model you hired?"

The gate unlocks without a word.

When Rhett gets to the front door, he knocks. Again, nothing. Scowling, he lets himself in and peers through the spacious wooden foyer. "Hello?" he calls, shutting the door behind him.

"Shhh," comes a testy response from down the long hall before him. A shaggy brunet head pokes out from a threshold and frowns at him hard through wire-rim glasses. "It's quiet time for the plants," presumably-the-artist hisses, and Rhett stares.

"...Sorry?"

"You're forgiven. Take off your shoes and come in. Tread quietly."

In a silky robe with cacophonous patterns, Rhett's new boss sweeps about the kitchen and moves with a languid certainty that screams  _eccentric._ Stereotypical, for a famed recluse, it would seem.

Rhett stands nearby awkwardly as Mr. Neal pours himself an orange-colored smoothie and downs it in one go. He takes his time cleaning the glass—driving Rhett's nerves up the wall—until finally he asks, "You ready?"

"Been ready," Rhett nods. "Where's the studio?"

"We'll be working in the backyard," Mr. Neal states, and Rhett's mind flickers to the apartments surrounding the abode.

"You can't be serious."

"If you have a problem with people seeing your body bared, you shouldn't have replied to my ad."

"I've only got a problem with it when—when voyeuristic weirdos can peep on me. _Artists_ are different."

"It's cute that you tell yourself that," Mr. Neal mumbles, brushing his hair out of his face and beckoning Rhett to follow him down the hall. "Either way, the tree coverage should be enough to keep you hidden."

 

* * *

 

The canopy  _is_ thick, and Rhett admires the tendrils of purple wisteria draping down as he strips beneath them and stands on the designated platform. Mr. Neal sits at his easel a few yards away, humming and scratching his chin as he watches his new model.

"Hope you're open-minded about what I'm going to be needing from you," he says. "Your compensation _should_ be more than enough."

Not hearing the last part, Rhett gives him a curious squint. "Like what?"

"Well, sometimes I might get you to wear something specific. Or even see-through. I might ask you to get down on all fours, or to dance to music I put on. I might throw paint at you," Mr. Neal lists off, looking bored as he preps his canvas.

"Uhh. Sure," Rhett relents, trying not to look at the guy like he's crazy. There's a reason his work is renowned, right?

"Not today, though. Today I am going to familiarize myself with you. Charcoal only." And like that, he starts drawing.

"You, uh..." Rhett hesitates, glancing around and suddenly feeling exposed despite already being naked. "Need me to stay still?"

"Only if you want," Mr. Neal shrugs, clocking Rhett and dragging his stick of coal across the canvas. "Lovely."

"What is?"

"Your shoulder freckles. They're quite lovely."

"Oh." Rhett glances down at them, cheeks hot. "Thanks?"

"Does the work of art thank the artist, or does it demand to be acknowledged for what it is?"

Rhett doesn't know how to answer that, so he doesn't.

 

* * *

 

Days pass, and the routine begins to feel much less intrusive than it had been at first. Mr. Neal had been right; for the paycheck, it's more than worth the tasks asked of Rhett, and thus hard not to feel... cherished, in a way?

The artist starts every day by checking for changes in his model's state: bruises, whether he's shaved anywhere, discoloration from fatigue or sunburn—anything out of the norm that has damaged his muse. The procedure always leaves Rhett strangely flustered, and it's a relief once he's allowed to get up on the podium and follow commands.

Bask in this array of fruit. Keep this ice on your shoulders until it melts. Stand in front of this fan with this veil and don't touch your hair.

Mr. Neal gives him full mind, eyes darting from Rhett's form to the page. Sometimes he plays bizarre music while he works, and although Rhett finds it obnoxious at first, he slowly grows to appreciate the selections: throat-singing; dulcimer melodies; classical music played at incorrect tempos, either cut down to half-time or doubled in a harried mess.

Perhaps Rhett shouldn't be stunned into silence when he takes his spot on the podium one unassuming day and Mr. Neal clears his throat and says, "I'd like you to touch yourself today."

"Excuse me?" Rhett hazards, and Mr. Neal nods.

"Yes, exactly what it sounds like. I'd like to draw you in a state of arousal."

Rhett stares, unable to grab any thread of thought to speak on. Eventually Mr. Neal cocks his head and purses his lips.

"You've masturbated before, I take it?"

"I—I mean, yeah, but..."

Mr. Neal doesn't interrupt, watching politely.

"Never in  _front_ of someone before."

"Then you understand, right?" the artist asks, dusting off his canvas with a distracted arm. "That's what I want to capture today—reaching that primal space and being the animals we like to pretend we aren't. It's raw. Beautiful."

"I just..." Rhett sighs, crossing his arms over his bare chest. "That's a lot to ask."

"Hmm." Mr. Neal considers this, as if he can perhaps empathize with where Rhett's coming from. "Well, what would make you more comfortable?"

Rhett huffs, gazing around. "I don't know? Gosh. A porno mag?"

"I don't have any," Mr. Neal thinks aloud, rapping his fingers on his chin. "But... stimulation, then?"

Rhett shrugs, at a loss.

Mr. Neal stands and sweeps over to him without warning. He joins Rhett on the podium, reaches out and places a hand on either side of his model's face.

Being handled is something Rhett is used to. He doesn't pull away, just holds those intense blue eyes and notices the shard of...  _something_ there when Mr. Neal presses his lips in a fine line. His facade cracks a bit before he pulls Rhett down to kiss him, harsh.

The shock only lasts until the artist moans into Rhett's mouth, the sound igniting his muse's blood in a way he hadn't known was lurking underneath. And he's certainly not anticipating it when Mr. Neal's warm, wet tongue finds his own, pressing into him at the same time one of his hands slips to toy with Rhett's half-hard cock.

Mr. Neal smells like graphite and incense, and Rhett all but melts under his attention and care. Like  _this_ was the sort of body-check he'd been aching for: the stroking, the little noises the man's making, the eagerness with which he chases Rhett's arousal into his mouth.

When they part, the artist is flushed and boyish, panting, lips wet from the kiss and eyes wide. Rhett suspects he looks much the same.

Mr. Neal straightens his shirt and rounds back to his seat, plopping down and clearing his throat. "You're hard," he notes, and Rhett realizes he's already palming himself absently. "Touch yourself."

Head tilting back, Rhett keeps his eyes on his superior and starts jerking himself, slow and deliberate, scared to examine the situation too closely for fear of losing his artist's interest. He doesn't intend for his pace to pick up so soon, but there's something undeniably arresting about the way Mr. Neal is sitting perfectly pretty, thighs pressed together under his iridescent robe, a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead as he works briskly on the Rhett of the page.

The model's breathing comes in shaky, lids low. When Mr. Neal adjusts on his stool and rubs himself—visibly shivering from the touch—Rhett moans and flicks his wrist faster.

"Don't come," Mr. Neal's voice cracks when he speaks, eyes glinting in dangerous warning on his subject.

Rhett falters. Wants to beg, wants to argue and defy the order. But he knows, deep down, that if he were to come, it would ruin everything. It would defeat the entire point. "How m-much longer?" he pleads, tone husky, and the artist checks his watch in a trembling fervor that Rhett identifies with.

"Twenty minutes, at least."

"Fuck."

" _Don't_ come," Mr. Neal pushes again, but the pace of his drawing kicks up a notch, and Rhett can practically see the guilt on his face. "Keep touching yourself, but... don't finish."

"Cruel," whispers Rhett, and Mr. Neal's throat bobs with a swallow.

 

* * *

 

Rhett couldn't say for how long he's forced to edge himself—stroking until he's right there at the precipice and pausing, tightening his hold on his cock and holding his breath, seeing stars until the wave passes, then cautiously starting again at the base of his dick. 

His knees are gonna give out. Sweating and pathetic, he feels like a wild animal caged.

When Mr. Neal stands and dusts his hands on his pants, Rhett perks up, pitiful and begging. "Sir? Can I...? Please?" he hopes against hope.

The artist crosses over to him and offers a hand, in which Rhett hesitantly places one of his own, and Mr. Neal coaxes him from the platform. With gentle guidance, he eases Rhett to the grassy ground on his back, and the blond could cry at the realization that he's being arranged for a second portrait.

But then the artist eases down onto him, straddling his thighs and sighing shakily. He doesn't say a word—just spits thick into his palm as Rhett melts into whines of "fuck, please"—and starts stroking his muse with a possessive determination that arches Rhett's back from the ground.  

Rhett gasps and writhes under him, giving in to the pleasure, struggling to keep an eye open under Mr. Neal's slick, relentless grip.

"What're you...?"

"Want you to paint your chest for me. If you're attracted to me, use that. Please. God, I would fuck you senseless if it weren't unethical, Rhett," Mr. Neal drawls in a lustful slur, and the admission sends Rhett crashing over the edge into bliss, spurting up onto his stomach and sternum.

After Rhett is finished—and only after—Mr. Neal takes out his cock and jacks off onto him, too, reaching release with just a few rushed strokes while Rhett whimpers beneath him, adding his own cum to the mess on Rhett's chest.

"Sorry," Mr. Neal breathes, putting himself away in an embarrassed hurry, and Rhett moans, trying to get a grip.

"N-No. God, Mister Neal."

"Call me Link."

"Link," Rhett echoes, gazing up at him through hazy eyelashes.

"You probably wanna clean off, now. Hmm?" Link offers, sitting up and wringing his hands in his robe.

"...Unless you wanna capture me like this," Rhett offers with a blush, and Link's chest swells, face glowing.

"I could kiss you right now."

"Do it."

So Link indulges, a grateful, chaste thing that makes Rhett's heart warm.

Against his lips, the contented model asks softly, "Maybe later, we can discuss our arrangement?"

"I'd like that very much, Rhett."

**Author's Note:**

> Post-ficlet AU notes:  
> Link's works featuring Rhett go viral (except for the explicit ones, those were never for anyone else's eyes) and they end up eventually getting married and becoming known as that one artist/model power couple who go to gallery openings together. Link teaches Rhett about art history and appreciating the "weird" stuff in life, and Rhett keeps him grounded and kind. ❤


End file.
